


Beautiful Boys

by phantisma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-17
Updated: 2006-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sammy read in some of John's research that on Halloween the dead can revisit the living. They spend the entire night waiting for their mom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Boys

“Dean?”

“What is it, twerp?”

“Do we have any candles?”

“What?”

“Candles. I need four candles.”

Dean looked up from the television to see his baby brother hovering with his hands behind his back. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing. I just want candles.”

“You said need.”

Sam rolled his eyes and said, “Never mind.” before turning around and wandering away. For an eight year old, Sammy was…well, different. Dean shook his head and turned back to the television.

It wasn’t ten minutes later Sam was back. “Dean, do we have any sweetgrass?”

“Any what?” Dean turned away from the television, and turned on his younger brother. “Why would you want that?”

“I-I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“What are you up to Sammy?”

“Nothing.” Sammy’s face went white and his eyes were big. “Nothing, Dean.”

“Tell me now, or I tell Dad when he gets home.”

“No, Dean…please?” It was a whine, a sure sign Sam was really up to something; something Dad wouldn’t approve of.

Dean shrugged. “Your choice. Tell me or tell Dad.”

Sam pouted and looked for all the world like he was going to cry, but Dean didn’t fold, just crossed his arms and waited. “It’s a surprise.”

Dean shook his head. Any surprise that involved candles and sweetgrass was not likely a surprise Dean wanted to be surprised with. “Tell me.”

Sam scampered away, and came back only moments later lugging one of the bigger books their father had acquired recently. “I…didn’t mean to snoop…it was…Dad left it on his bed the other day.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Give it to me.”

“Don’t be mad, Dean.”

“I’m not mad, Sammy.”

Sam bit his lip and let Dean take the book. It was a large book of folk tales, a collection of mythology and stories from around the world dealing with the supernatural. “This is one of the books Dad got from Pastor Jim a few months ago.”

Sam nodded. “I was reading it, stories about Halloween.”

Dean looked up at his brother, beginning to get an inkling of where this was going. “Sam, I don’t think—“

Sam’s face took on a bit of anger, color rising in his cheeks. “Just read it, Dean.” He flipped through the pages for his brother, ending on a page marked with a picture. Dean turned it over and it was his turn to pale.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked breathlessly.

“It was in the book.” Sam said defiantly.

Dean’s fingers shook a little as he tucked the picture into the back of the book and scanned over the page it marked. He pressed his lips together as he struggled through the explanation at the top of the page. Sam was the better reader, but Dean got the gist of it. He didn’t know what to feel. He knew what Dad would say. He closed the book and shook his head.

“No, Sam.”

“Dean!” Sam’s little voice whined and Dean shook his head again.

“Dad would never—“

“Dad isn’t here!” Sam declared, stamping his little foot. “Dad is never here!”

“That’s not fair, Sammy.”

“No, Dean, it isn’t.” Sam’s big eyes were watery with tears and he was blinking furiously trying to get them to go away. “He’s never here. He’s never…and I’ve never…you know…I don’t remember her, Dean.” His voice was small and soft and the tears fell despite his best efforts. “I don’t remember her at all. I didn’t even know that was her in the picture, until I read her name on it.”

“Come here, twerp.” Dean said gently, tugging his younger brother until he could wrap his arms around him. “It…it isn’t something we should do, is all Sam. It’s not…” Dean shook his head. How do you explain these things to a kid brother?

“Please, Dean?” Sam pulled out of his brother’s arms and wiped a sleeve over his tear stained face. “I’ll do anything you want, I’ll do your chores all week.”

Dean sighed, already caving to the puppy dog eyes and pout. He opened the book back to the page and scanned over it. “This isn’t enough, Sam. It’s just a list of traditions.”

Sam grinned and nodded. “I know. That’s why I was cross checking. I found this other book at the library yesterday. It isn’t exactly the same, I don’t think…but it…it will work.”

“How old are you again?” Dean asked, ruffling his younger brother’s hair.

“Dean!”

Dean smirked. “Bring me this other book too. And your notes. I know you made notes.”

Sam was practically beaming as he ran from the room. Dean knew he shouldn’t encourage him, and if their father found out, he’d skin Dean alive, but…with hesitant fingers, Dean pulled the picture out and held it up. She was radiant, pregnant with Sam with Dean clinging to her leg. He rubbed a thumb over her face before turning the picture over. His father’s hand writing had scribbled Mary & Dean Winchester, Lawrence, Kansas across the back of the picture.

He set it aside and turned his attention to the book. Halloween was the next night, and their father was likely to be out hunting, he generally was on Halloween. There were so many traditions surrounding the dead. He’d heard of them and always assumed they were part of the folklore that was nothing more than myth because he couldn’t understand why his father wouldn’t have already tried something like this.

Sam dropped to the floor beside Dean, spreading his book and a notebook between them. Dean shook his head. “You are a freak of nature, Sammy.”

There were diagrams of a circle with candles and lines of salt and strange squiqqles. “What’s this?” Dean asked, pointing.

Sam looked at the picture, then back at the other book. “That one is sweetgrass, spirits like it.”

Dean nodded and grabbed the book. It was a book of rituals, older than his father. Sam had it open to a ritual for honoring the dead. Dean couldn’t believe he was even considering this. “Are you sure you don’t want to go trick or treating instead? We could steal you a costume.”

“Dean.” It was a whiny word that seemed to echo in the room in Sammy’s you-are-so-mean voice.

“Okay. What’s this?” He pointed to another unintelligible blob on the drawing.

“Food. You’re supposed to put out the spirit’s favorite food…what they liked while they were living.” Sam cocked his head at Dean. “Do you know? What she liked?”

Dean though about it. “Spaghetti. I remember spaghetti.”

Sam’s eyes grew wide. “Do you know how to make spaghetti?”

Dean shook his head. Then grinned. “No, but I know what might be just as good.”

Their eyes met and in unison they said, “Spaghettios!”

They heard the sound of the car and Dean closed the book and gathered the notebooks, shoving the lot under the couch and looking up as their father came in, a cool wind blowing in with him.

“Boys, what are you doing up?”

“I was telling Sammy a bedtime story.” Dean said, ruffling his brother’s hair.

John nodded distractedly and fell into the chair.

“How was the hunt?”

“Tiring, Dean. Get me a beer?”

“We’re out. We got coke though.”

John nodded and Dean gestured toward the bedroom with his chin while he went for the fridge. For a change, Sam took the hint and climbed up from the floor. “Night Dad.” He kissed John’s cheek and scrambled for the bedroom he shared with Dean.

“Did you get it?” Dean asked as he handed his father the last coke.

“Nope, but I figured out how. I’ll get him tomorrow.”

Dean turned off the TV. “Tomorrow is Halloween, you know.”

John nodded. “I know Son. It can’t be helped. You can take Sammy, right?”

“Yeah, Dad. I can.”

John sighed. “Good. You’re a good boy, Dean.”

“Good night Dad.” Dean couldn’t even look at him with the guilt running through his stomach. He wasn’t a good boy…he was just a better liar than most kids his age.

 

As the sun went down, Dean finished warming up dinner for him and Sam, pointedly not looking at the little pile of supplies they had scrounged or straight up stolen. He spooned Spaghettios into three bowls, one for each of them, one for the ritual circle. “Eat up, Sammy. It’s going to be a long night.”

Sam was full of nervous energy, his knees bouncing, his eyes dancing. Dean wasn’t sure whether he was more nervous about getting caught, or about the whole damn thing actually working.

He eyed the pile of supplies again and decided on the latter, because if it did…if it actually worked…He swallowed and looked at Sam, laughing at the tomato sauce all over his face. “Wipe your face, Sam.”

He let Sam clear the dishes, then together, they took their contraband supplies into the bedroom, pushing the two beds apart a little more to create enough space to set up. Dean plated the candles, four plain white emergency candles, with just enough melted wax to hold them upright on the saucers. Sam in turn took them and placed them in roughly the four directions.

“How’s that Dean?”

Dean looked up from the notes and nodded. “Looks good, Sammy, looks good.”

Sam looked at him. “What’s next?”

Dean settled to the floor with Sam’s notes and the books and gestured toward the cardboard box covered with a pillow case to make an altar of sorts. “We set up the…stuff….”

Sam nodded, all the nervous energy gone, a scary sort of seriousness in its place. He knelt beside Dean and sorted through the pile of things. Sam started with the picture, his tiny thumb rubbing over her face. He set it on the makeshift altar with a reverence most 8 year olds would never understand. The bowl of rapidly cooling pasta came next, and a glass of orange juice. The book said wine, but there was no way they were getting their hands on wine, so they used whatever was left in the fridge.

“Okay.” Dean licked his lips and scanned over the page. “We need to light the candles and recite the words to cast the circle.” This part made him nervous. He would have much preferred a salt circle, but Sam was right. Salt would keep their mother out, just as it would any other spirit. This new age shit didn’t make him feel comfortable at all.

“It isn’t new age shit.” Sam said quietly as if he were reading Dean’s thoughts. “The book says it comes from ancient Ireland.”

“Books aren’t always right, Sam.” Dean countered.

“Whatever Dean. Just do it.”

“Yeah, all right.” Dean got up and took the two steps to the first candle. “Wait, are we starting in the east?”

Sam pulled the book closer. “This one says north. The other one says east.”

Dean stopped midway between them. “Does it offer reasons?”

Sam shook his head. “Not really.”

Dean shrugged. “Okay, I pick north then.” Dean bent over and lit the candle. “Do I really have to say the words?”

“Dean, we have to do this right.” Sam whined and Dean cussed under his breath.

“Okay, okay.” He took a deep breath and glanced at Sam’s serious face before he said it, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “Guardians of the Watchtowers of the North, ye Lords of Earth; I summon you up, to witness our rites and to guard this Circle.”

Dean held his breath, waiting…though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He heard Sam shift and stepped toward the east. He lit the candle and spoke the words quickly. “Guardians of the Watchtowers of the East, ye Lords of Air; I summon you up, to witness our rites and to guard this Circle.”

Even faster, he did the south and west and returned to the north candle. There was a slight shift in his perception, as if he’d put glasses on or something. Everything seemed a little clearer. He looked at Sam. “Okay,” he breathed, “what now?”

Sam swallowed and handed him a braid of long grasses. It was partially burnt already, after their father had used it nearly a year ago to summon the ghost of a young murder victim. Dean nodded. More than not having a circle of salt to protect them, Dean feared this. Sweetgrass was like a magnet for spirits. “You sure you want to do this Sammy?” he whispered, his lips a tight line.

Sam’s eyes were wide and there was fear in them, but he nodded. “Yeah, Dean. Do it.”

Dean nodded, his eyes locked on Sam’s as he flicked the lighter one last time, lighting the end of the braid and watching it catch. He blew it out once it was solidly alight, letting it smolder, the smoke circling around him as he came back to Sam and set it on the plate beside the altar. Sam lifted his notebook, turning the page. His voice was strong and serious, not a hint of self-consciousness as he read.

“On this night when the spirits of the dead journey from the Underworld to visit the living, we hold this space sacred to receive our beloved dead, Mary Winchester.”

“Is that it?”

Sam nodded, his face white. “So what now?”

Sam put the notebook down and set his hands in his lap. “We wait.”

“For how long?” Dean suddenly felt very unsure of this whole thing.

“Until she comes.” Sam said.

 

Dean’s heart thundered in his chest as the night dragged by them. His eyes flicked to the clock on the other side of the room, from time to time, marking the hours. It was midnight. So far nothing had happened. Sam lay with his head in Dean’s lap, not asleep, but Dean could tell he was distressed.

“What if we did it wrong, Dean?” Sam asked softly, not lifting his head or moving.

Dean let his hand stroke over Sam’s hair. “I’m sure we did fine, Sam.”

“Why hasn’t she come?”

“I don’t know, squirt.”

The candles were burning down. Before long their circle would go dark. “Maybe she’s busy.” Sam said suddenly a few minutes later.

“Busy?”

Sam sat up, his eyes filled with tears. “Maybe she’s with Dad.”

Dean shook his head. “Why would you say that?”

“Dad’s never here on Halloween.” He snuffled and rubbed his runny nose on his shirt sleeve. “Maybe that’s why.”

“I don’t think that’s why, Sam.”

“We’ll wait.” He declared it, like he was in charge, and in a way, Dean supposed he was. This whole thing had been Sam’s idea after all.

“Yeah, we’ll wait.” Dean echoed and Sam laid back down with his head on Dean’s knee.

 

Dean was sure Sam had fallen asleep. The four candles were little more than puddles of wax with the tiniest of flames. It was nearly 2am.

“We should have gotten flowers.” Sam murmured and Dean jumped.

“What?”

“Flowers. One of the books said something about flowers.” Sam’s voice dripped with hurt.

“Its okay, Sam.”

But Sam was crying now, his tears soaking into Dean’s pants. Dean stroked his back, and tried to calm him, but the tears in his own eyes were very real. He hadn’t really thought…but he’d let himself start to believe…to think that maybe…”She’s not coming, Dean.”

Dean shifted so that he could lay down beside Sam, wrapping his arms around his younger brother. “I’m sorry.” Sam whispered, shivering.

“For what?” Dean asked.

“I—I thought I could do it…that I could get her to come…for you…”

Dean’s hand stopped stroking his back and turned Sam to face him. “What do you mean, for me?”

Sam ducked his head and closed his eyes. “I just thought…you know…you get…so angry…and you miss her…and I thought…I could…as a gift, you know?”

Dean’s breath skittered as he realized what Sam was getting at. “Oh, Sammy. No.” He pulled his brother close and held him. “No, you don’t have to give me anything, Sammy. You don’t owe me anything.”

Sam sobbed against his chest and Dean inhaled deeply. “I just—“

“No Sammy. I do miss her, but I have you. And I love you very much.”

Sam pulled back and looked at him. “Yeah?”

Dean smiled. “Yeah.”

The north candle sputtered out and the room was instantly darker. The east and west candles followed, leaving only the south candle burning. They both sat up and turned to watch it as the flame grew, dancing. In the center of the flame a figure seemed to grow, looking out at them. Dean’s eyes narrowed as he stared. Sam’s hand grabbed at his. 

Something like a face danced inside the flickering flame, looking first at Dean, then at Sam, then that candle died just as the others had. “Dean?”

“I don’t know Sam.”

“It looked like…”

“Yeah…” Dean took a deep breath and looked around them. “We should clean this up and get to bed.

Sam nodded. Together they scrambled up to their feet, Sam gathered the plates and Dean took care of the sweetgrass, Spaghettios and orange juice. Together they placed the picture on the nightstand between their beds and almost in unison they sighed.

 

John walked into the small apartment only an hour or so before dawn. He could smell the clinging smell of burning sweetgrass and dropped everything to open the door to the boy’s room, instantly fearing the worst. They were asleep, each in their own beds. The air in the room was warm. 

John crossed over to kiss Sam’s forehead, then turned for Dean, his eyes falling on the picture on the table. He lifted it reverently, blinking at the tears that always came when he saw her face. His thumb traced over her swollen belly and down over Dean’s face. He put the picture back and sat on the bed beside Dean.

His eldest rolled over, his eyes slitting open. It was obvious he’d been crying. “Don’t be mad.” he whispered.

John shook his head. “No, not mad, Dean. You two okay?”

Dean looked over at Sam’s sleeping form then nodded. “Yeah, Dad. We’re okay.”

“Get some sleep.” John kissed his forehead and left him to drift back to sleep.

Shutting the bedroom door, John leaned against it, his heart thumping and tears falling. “My boys. My beautiful boys.” They’d been words she’d said every night as they’d put Sam to bed in his crib, Dean standing on tip toes to see. John swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath. “I miss you, baby. Thank you for giving me these two beautiful boys.”  



End file.
